


How Arya Stark Inadvertently Saved the North

by nickahontas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Gen, House Bolton, One Shot, The Red Keep, king’s landing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: When no one will listen to the threats Arya Stark overheard, she turns to her unsettling brother-to-be for help.——————“Please, Domeric,” she says, and the urgency in her tone has him regarding her anew. “You’re not my brother for true, I know, but you’re from the North and you’re scary and you’ve never once made fun of me or told me I can’t do the things Bran does. I need your help.”
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Arya Stark & Domeric Bolton, Domeric Bolton/Original Female Character
Comments: 14
Kudos: 94





	How Arya Stark Inadvertently Saved the North

**Author's Note:**

> AU- Robb has a twin. Domeric is betrothed to her. Because of her, Bran isn’t crippled and Jon makes it to King’s Landing.

Dom is strumming his harp in the Tower’s courtyard, watching the people go to and fro, when Arya finds him. For all his complaints, he quite likes Arya Stark. He appreciates the hard, unrelenting wildness that she struggles against. It reminds him of the Weeping Water rushing below his room in the Dreadfort. She stares up at him with a dirty face and an even dirtier dress and he can almost hear it. She’s almost too old for such things, but a girl like her should have been sent to Bear Island instead of the capital. Best to hone her wildness instead of tempering it.

“I have something important to show you,” Arya announces.

Marcus, his captain, smiles in amusement behind her. Everyone loves Arya Stark. Sansa is too kind to survive, Lyra is too charismatic for her own good, but Arya is genuine. She says what she thinks and to seven hells with anything else. She’s still a child though, caught up in games and stories.

“Where are your siblings?” Dom asks.

She casts a shameful look down at her muddy boots.

“Bran is training with Jon, Lyra is shadowing Renly today, and Sansa is with the Princess.”

“And where is it that you’re supposed to be?”

“Please, Domeric,” she says, and the urgency in her tone has him regarding her anew. “You’re not my brother for true, I know, but you’re from the North and you’re scary and you’ve never once made fun of me or told me I can’t do the things Bran does. I need your help.”

Father would preen. Father would preen and scheme and turn Arya Stark’s trust back on her.

“Alright,” Domeric says, rising from his perch. “Should I bring a guard?”

She blinks up at him. “Really? Just like that?” 

“You’re not my sister for true, I know, but you’re from the North and you’re scary and you’ve never once made fun of me....to my face, anyway.” He smirks when she suddenly finds a cluster of daisies interesting. “Well. Should Marcus tag along?”

She chews on her lip as she thinks it through. “No. I think it should be a secret.”

Dom nods thoughtfully. “How secret?”

“Very secret.”

Well. How very interesting.

“Why don’t we change clothes and meet outside that awful rose garden? No one will know we are Domeric Bolton and Arya Stark.”

“Okay.”

With that, they both climb to their rooms in the Tower and don their costumes. Domeric takes the time to choose three knives before he leaves. He orders Marcus and his men to go to Lord Stark if they do not return by sundown. Then he makes his way to the meeting place.

Arya somehow found a cap to hide her hair. She truly looks like some orphan boy running errands throughout the castle. The only tell he can find is the fit and quality of her boots. He stops just beside her and nods his head to a nearby tapestry. It’s a tight fit, especially when he kneels to her height, but it’s manageable.

“Arya, I’m going to give you something, but you mustn’t tell anyone. It must be a surprise to whoever finds you with it, do you understand?”

She nods, her grey eyes wide.

“Good. Now push back your sleeve and hold out your arm.”

She’s even skinnier than he thought, but it’ll have to do. She gasps in wonder when he pulls a sheathe from the band of his trousers.

“What are my house words?” He asks as he tightens the sheath and buckles it. He’ll have to gocommission a better one in the morning. Maybe even one for her boot would be easier with her tiny arms, even if it would be a shame to deny the world that draw speed. Arya Stark is a prodigy with any blade no matter how much it pains her father to see.

“Our Blades are Sharp.”

“Can I tell you a secret? One that your father can never hear?”

She nods. “I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“Though we don’t flay anymore,” he says, and isn’t that a flat out lie, “we keep our blades sharp enough to. This knife could literally peel the skin off the muscle, Arya. Be very careful not to hurt yourself with it.”

“I promise.”

He hands her the knife. It’s not a stiletto like her Needle. It’s an actual fighting knife, less of an elegant dagger and more of a brutal instrument. She sheathes it and pulls her sleeve back down. Her arm is too skinny to mask a weapon’s presence. He’ll definitely have to get one made for her boot until she’s older.

“Alright, then. Lead on.”

They walk through halls and stairs and corridors. No one seems to pay them any bit of attention. They’re just two servants or workers on a errand for the castellan or perhaps some lesser lord. Arya leads him steadily down spiraling stairwells until one widens into a wide, sloping hall. She pulls him to the side, where they hug the wall as they go down and down into the bowels of the castle.

He sees them first. He pulls up short, hardly daring to believe he isn’t dreaming.

“I thought he destroyed them all,” he whispers.

Domeric reaches out to touch the nearest dragon skull. He fancies it’s still warm, that he can feel the heat coming from deep inside. Arya tugs on his hand impatiently and drags him further down the cavernous tunnel. She points at a particularly large skull around the bend.

“I hid there,” she whispers.

“From who?”

She gives him that same serious, fearful glance that she’d worn in the courtyard. He squeezes her hand to show his understanding. To his surprise, she keeps holding tight as she walks as sure footed in the dark as any cat. Eventually, the soothing dance of water reaches their ears.

Domeric squeezes through the grate they find with some forceful wiggling. Lord Stark certainly wouldn’t be able to fit and Lyra would absolutely struggle, but at least they won’t have to worry about getting the wolves through, what with them terrorizing the Kingswood.

They stomp through the mud and light sewage. It isn’t the main sewer, thank the gods. It stinks, but not as badly as the others must. Finally, after at least half an hour, the warm light of the sun peeks through. The dirty water flows out into the Blackwater, which then goes out into the sea.

This outer grate is large enough that only an Umber would struggle. Domeric steps through easily. Outside, he puts his hands on his hips and admires the strange view of the city. She hasn’t just found a way out the Red Keep. She’s found a way out of the entire fucking city.

“Arya Stark. If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

“A bow and quiver,” she says automatically. “I’ve got Needle and a knife. It’s all I need to round out the set.”

Somehow it doesn’t feel like enough. “Arya, you brilliant girl, I’ll give you a different bow for every day of the year for this.”

She kicks at a stray pebble and mumbles something under her breath.

Domeric scowls and takes her chin in his hand. “You are the She-Wolf of Winterfell. Do not mumble.”

“Yes, Domeric.”

He lets her go, satisfied, and begins the long trek back to the gates. He’ll go riding this way tomorrow to familiarize himself with the land and plan an actual escape route. They might be able to hide bags in the skulls.

“Domeric?”

“Yes?”

She scampers forward to meet up with him. “Are you like that with Lyra?”

He fights back a chuckle. “Like what?”

“All scary and Bolton.”

“Yes.”

“And she lets you?!”

“Yes.” And she likes it, he does not say.

They continue on in silence only stopping to wash themselves off with the city folk. Domeric takes a moment to consider how bizarre his life has become. This is the second Stark girl that’s bathed nearly naked in a river with him. The Kings of Winter must be turning in their crypts.

He gets the story out of her as they walk to the gates. He listens, fear creeping up his spine with every word. It’s obvious enough. Someone wants Lord Stark dead. Arya is too young to understand completely, but she’s smart enough to fear for her father. Domeric is honest with her in a way that Lord Stark, and maybe even Lyra, wouldn’t be.

“I can’t protect your father. Not here, anyway. The most I can do is get your family out when the time comes.”

“We can’t just leave him behind!”

“Arya, your father was raised by Jon Arryn. As high as honor. He will do what is honor demands of him.”

“And you won’t? You’re a knight! Knights are supposed to be good and honorable!”

“You know better than that. Knighthood does not make one good and honorable.”

“That isn’t the point! The point is-“

Domeric pulls her aside before they can reach the guardsmen, squatting down so that he can look her in the eye. “Listen to me, Arya. I am a selfish man. I am not your father. I am a knight, aye, but I am Domeric Bolton before I am a knight. When forced to choose between the few things I care for and my honor, I will always make the selfish choice. I will do terrible, horrible things to protect myself and the things I care for. Do you understand?”

They stare at one another for a long time, until in a flat voice, she asks, “Does that make us bad people?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s a question for the Old Gods.”

He stands and ruffles her hair. They pass by the guards without issue. She is uncharacteristically contemplative throughout their trek to the Red Keep. The dam doesn’t break until they’re in the castle proper.

“Do you care for Lyra?”

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to.”

“Fine. Do you care for me?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Do you care for Bran?”

“Yes, though I prefer Jon above the both of you and Lyra above you all.”

I care for Lyra more than anyone else in this godsforsaken world, he thinks bitterly.

“Do you care for my father?”

“Eddard Stark is my liege lord and the father of my betrothed.”

She squints suspiciously at him. He doesn’t bother to explain. Let her think what she will. Half of his reputation relies upon other’s imaginations and Arya Stark has a very active imagination. Those two things may very well save the whole bloody North. 


End file.
